Stigma. Judgment. Inferiority. Branding. Segregation. Fear.

When we read ‘The Scarlet Letter’ in high school my first thoughts centered around the explicit nature of the book. Why were we required to read this? This book full of controversy and sin. At the same time why were we required to keep the bible and the belief therein hush, hush. Was it not also a book full of controversy and sin?

All critical analysis of the hypocrisy in the public school system aside I am glad I read the book. I am glad they made me do it.

The human tendency to act upon fears fascinates me. One who ostracizes or even punishes another person due to perceived differences sees oneself as just and right. ‘The Scarlet Letter’ illustrated this fact of life in a concrete way for me for the first time in my life.

For those of you who haven’t read this little book I’ll tell you a bit. Hester gives birth to a daughter borne from an adulterous relationship. 17th century Bostonian practiced mandated that such woman wear a scarlet letter A sown to the chest of their garments. The book, by the great Nathaniel Hawthorne, looks at the struggles of assimilating to life lived under the scrutiny of public condemnation.

That awful A. That detestable A. That fearful A.

This evening as I prepared my children, all five of them, for tomorrow, the first day of the 2012 school year, I think of that A. The stigma and judgement associated with adoption here in Bolivia quite often turns my stomach, much like the feelings I had as I read that book so many years ago.

I feel like I am sending Kaitlynn to school with a proverbial big letter A stitched to her cute little school shirt.

Even this morning at church I had a little conversation that had me biting my tongue even though I wanted to shout.

[names have been changed]

Me: Hello Valerie

Valerie: Hello. I want you to meet my friend, Stephanie.

(Niceties between Stephanie and myself, including a kiss on the cheek)

Valerie: (gesturing to Tyler) And this is her youngest son.

(Stephanie smiles at him)

Valerie: (gesturing to Kaitlynn) And this is her daughter.

Stephanie: (odd look on her face) She looks very different from the others.

Valerie: It’s because… (pause. quick, nervous glance at me.) …she is (in a lower voice) …adopted.

(niceties exchanged as I make a quick exit.)

Why did it even have to be said? Why was an ‘explanation’ necessary? In seeing the ‘differences’ why did a comment have to be made?

Not the first time such an exchange has taken place, nor will it be the last. And with school starting I fear for my daughter. She is only four. People say stupid things all the time.

“Who are her real parents?” “Your kids have curly hair and yours is straight. Why?” “What’s it like being married to a… [searching for a politically correct term]“ To name a few.

Then I go into analytical overdrive. Who’s judging who? I am judging the judgmental ones! I am pegging them with a fretful A and acting upon my own fears.

Kaitlynn is good, and sweet, and kind, and cute, and pleasant, and obedient, and smart. Why do I worry? My others have lived through the curious looks and uncomfortable questions. Skin color, nationality, parent’s profession, morals, religious stance, and income bracket, just to name a few of the oddities singling out the Washington family. When the unthinking comments come we will deal with it.

I am so grateful that we chose to keep Kaitlynn’s full background story a secret. What good does it do to make all that drama public knowledge? When she can comprehend the details we will share them with her. Upon her approval and if we see it is prudent we will share all that took place to bring her to our arms. Until that happens people needn’t know anything beyond the fact that she is ours. Period.

——————

How have you dealt with it when others have singled out you or your loved ones? It’s been said we should celebrate our differences. How can we do that in a respectful way? How can we show love to those we disagree with, our enemies?

When coordinating a handful of simultaneous moves one must consider oneself a box: flexible, fill-able, empty-able, re-fill-able, and tough.

I go behind the grocery store and dig in the the bins for boxes. Flattened, the boxes stack on the scale so they know how many coins I need to give them. I feel like these boxes. Emptied of the original and deflated. I am emptying myself of the attachment we have had to this location for years.

Reformation of the 200+ boxes by way of rolls of sticky tape makes perfect work for children eager to lend a hand. They pile by the wall waiting to be filled. I feel like these boxes. Devoid of my former attachments I wait for re-purposing. What will I carry? What will the new load be? What will fill me at the new place?

Filled yet still in use the boxes lounge around. Items will be pulled and returned a number of times still before Monday. Then the final strip of tape will shut them up for the trip down the street. These boxes mostly likely won’t stay taped for long. I feel like these boxes. I am in the in-between. There are daily chores that feel suddenly odd even after doing in them every day for all time. I want to be at the new place but we are not there yet. So I have to unpack and repack myself various times in a day.

The Berenstain Bears tell a story of prepositions using the predicament of being stuff in a box. The rhythmic verse chants in my mind, “Inside, outside, upside-down…” Our things displaced fill our spaces, inside, outside, and all around. I feel like these boxes. Insecurity of not-what-was and not-yet thrust me forward, awkward, in the way, imposing. I want to rush and be done with this. I want to quit stubbing my toes on things out of place. I want to stop stubbing my heart on a jumbled up soul.

Monday we move our house. Other moving dates will come soon. For now I focus on this one. This sweet picture taken by their older sister, Gabrielle, captures the anticipation of my little ones. I feel like this box. The burden of making this move a good one for the whole family weighs heavy. I hope they don’t feel overlooked or shoved to one side. I hope I can absorb their insecurities and stresses in this time of change. I hope I don’t forget that they, too, are feeling all the boxes-full of emotions that I am. I hope I remember to run to the One who can tape together my seems when I feel things getting to be too much.

Surrounding the elevated statue of Simon Bolivar, the Great Liberator of South America, in the plaza at the center of Bolivia’s capitol city Sucre you will find a ring of golden words. Words. Powerful words which read: Sucre, Bolivia, the cradle of liberty.

The city holds the wonder of words which gave me the power of liberty. Our first months in Bolivia beginning in 2001 we forced our tongues to converse with the people in the language of the heart of this land. When the uncomfortable unfamiliarity traded places with familiar ownership we pushed past the easy into the mechanics of the language. By taking a trip almost exactly ten years ago I spent a few weeks in Sucre learning the rules of the Spanish language.

In the city where liberty meets law my tongue and brain submitted to language laws which gave me social liberty. I found a freedom to befriend Bolivians. I saw the reason behind the ramblings. In this cradle of liberty I felt like a child learning to speak, full of uninhibited vim.

El Poder y la Gloria // The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene

A decade later I return with my husband. I carry in my bag a book I started reading a few weeks ago. I picked it up at a flee market in Cochabamba. During my time on this vacation I determined to finish reading this book.

How poetic that I would finish reading my first Spanish novel in the city where love for the language was born. I’ve read other non-fiction books out of duty or obligation. I am not too proud to mention I have also read a small mountain of children’s books in Spanish. I’ve also started, and re-started, reading the classic monstrosity ‘El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha‘. This one, ‘El Poder y la Gloria’ (The Power and the Glory) by Graham Greene, I choose for the sheer pleasure of the reading.

The story tells about a Mexican priest being pursued by a lieutenant during the polemic 1930s. The British author wrote the book in English. Knowing I read a translation from the original I felt like I lost some of the artistry of the work. Yet, being able to read the book in the primary tongue of most of the characters enriched the experience.  I recommend the book (in whatever language you prefer).

Biographies comprise half of my list. I tend to prefer stories rather than instructional manuals. Please feel free to add your favorite missions books, articles or video links in the comments; I love to learn new things.

10. ‘Saint Patrick of Ireland’ by: Philip Freeman – My most favorite missions school teacher David Henry, a veteran missionary, had a long list of books and articles for us to read. We had to write short reports on what we learned from the assigned reading. Then, he facilitated in depth discussions in which we all participated. This fascinating biography from that time stuck with me.

9.  ‘Appointment in Jerusalem’ by: Derek Prince and Lydia Prince – What a thrill to read about the wife of the man who prayed with me to receive Christ as my Lord and Savior! This gutsy woman amazes me with her love and commitment.

8. Mother Teresa – I went looking online for the actual biography I read but there are so many I don’t remember which one it is. Right now my oldest daughter is reading it and has it with her at school. I love passing along great books to my kids.

7. ‘Through Gates of Splendor’ by: Elisabeth Elliot – Reading this book as a young teen I faced the issue of martyrdom for the first time ever. I also saw a glimpse at what walking in the kind of love God asks us to requires of us. I first heard the call to a life of extremes whispered on the pages of this book.

6. ‘On the Golden Shore: The Life of Adoniram Judson’ by: Courtney Anderson – An action packed biography of the life on Adoniram Judson and his mission to the Burmese people.

5. ‘Eternity in Their Hearts’ by: Don Richardson – A mind blowing look at how God makes himself known to all cultures of all eras and how we can cooperate with the eternal plan of God already in motion.

4. Perspectives – I think I would very much enjoy participating in a complete Perspectives course because the one book we own has been of great benefit to us as missionaries. The monster volume is a collection of articles written by dozens of missionaries and people working in the field of missions. The articles are grouped for easy reference. Highly recommended for anyone serious about doing mission work.

3. ‘When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty without Hurting the Poor… and Yourself’ by: Brian Fikkert, Steve Corbett and John Perkins – Even thought I haven’t yet read this book it is very high up on my upcoming reads list because I have heard so many wonderful things about it.

2. ‘Language Acquisition Made Practical’ (L.A.M.P.) by: E. Thomas Brewster and Elizabeth S. Brewster – Plop me down in any country with this book and I will be conversing with the natives in their own tongue in a very short time. The book doesn’t teach you the language. It teaches you effective strategies on how to learn a language.

1. The Bible – Look at the life of Jesus, the ultimate missionary. Feel the passion of the original apostles. Watch Paul as he travels. Hear the prophets boldly proclaim the will of God. Walk with the patriarchs of the Old Testament. The heart of God expressed in words tells the beautiful story of mission from cover to cover of the Bible.

*** Next list: 10 Most Memorable Moments of Culture Shock ***

Cliches are to be avoided like the plague. Or so say the experts. The title just did such a great job summing up my thoughts I couldn’t resist.

From a number of sources recently a common critique has come my way. They urge me to, well, cut to the chase.

Get to the point quicker and with more drama. Bring us to the climax and don’t shrink from the emotion. You don’t need so much build up; I like the way you were so concise this time.

I second guess myself about how far I can push the emotion factor without losing credibility. I also worry about mistreating my listeners or readers through manipulation. Examining my process brings me to the truth behind my lack-luster communication. Pseudo people pleasing inhibits my creativity.

I say pseudo because really when I shirk from full expression of thought in order to avoid offending certain pockets of society I actually set up barriers that push others away. When I interact with the creation of another person (writing, speech, dance, movies, paintings, etc.) I yearn for stimulus that allows me to feel deeply the emotion of the creator. Why would I deny my audiences this same pleasure?

My analytical brain burns with the logical follow-up question: how? Instead of the boring old bullet points I opted for a more colorful conglomeration of thoughts. Behold the spider graph of how I might go from inhibition to activation.

image of my thoughts on how to go from inhibition to activation

Please feel free to share your thoughts about how one might trade in inhibition for activation.

*Bonus link for fiction writers: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php Challenging yet extremely insightful information for ‘writing the perfect scene‘.

My uncle always told me, “Locks are for honest people.” He explained that if a thief wants to get pass a lock he does. The locks only guard against honest people. Still, I lock my car doors. We also have strong locks all over our properties that stay locked. You’d call me irresponsible otherwise.

If locks are only for honest people then I have a similar line of reasoning in regards to education. I would say that grades (or notes) on schoolwork are only for approval seekers in society. Those who excel with top grades either do so effortlessly or find a great level of satisfaction in the approval of superiors. Those who get average or below average grades quickly learn to not care about their grades simply doing enough to get by and at times not even that.

There are the exceptions to the rule of students who were once underachievers and then pull their grades up but not due to the fact that grades are given out. Usually a turn around of that nature is the result of a superior in the young person’s life taking a special interest and helping the student to feel that getting good grades is an important part of being successful in life. Grades by themselves are not a sufficient motivation to change behavior. I would even dare to say that the grades standing alone would be a discouragement in the case of a person who is not in the habit of getting high grades.

Yet, grades of some nature will exist in every stage of our lives. So a few words to those of us who interact with students.

• Encourage learners to love the learning process
• Encourage learners to do their best and be proud of that
• Encourage learners to applaud their fellow learners

I understand that grades are used to determine percentages and the “quality” of schools and that gets around to funding and taxes and bureaucracy. The people who have the duty of juggling those policy issues have my utmost respect and I wouldn’t wish for that job under any circumstance.

The irony is that I am a co-founder and fellow administrator of a school! Ha! The double irony is that I have nothing more than a high-school diploma and there are dozens of university graduates who are by definition my subordinates. Shall we abolish grades? No! Shall we do all we can to help children find their worth as a person outside of the achievements that their God-given abilities allow them to accomplish? A thousand times yes!

This process starts when the educator and person who influences children learns to place their worth in the simple fact that they are a unique human being fashioned by the Creator especially for the life they are living. A new motivation emerges when we can value others outside of their accomplishments. What beauty is found when we look for value in the character and individuality of others.

Agree? Disagree? Thoughts? Feel free to comment.

When DaRonn was a teenager he became passionate for the things of God. He began a group at his high school dedicated to studying the bible and doing outreach projects. He signed up to teach a Sunday School class and got paired with me to lead the 3rd and 4th graders. He was in church every time the doors were open for morning services, evening services, youth group and every other special meeting. He even hung out with the pastor in his free time.

Our friendship began in those hallowed halls of a mall turned church. We were a part of a group of young people from that church who hung out together. There was a couple at church who invited us to come over one night a week to hang out and talk about the things of God. We filled their home with energetic teenagers hungry to learn and grow spiritually. God was at the center of everything we did.

It must be clarified, though, that DaRonn was not a saint all the time. I had to laugh when his mother had no other recourse but to ground the boy from church. She forbade him from going to church for some kind of misbehavior. She knew that would get the message across to her son. At the time I just found it funny.

Now I can have a double laugh because I did a similar thing.

My Gabrielle is great friends with a girl in The House of Dreams. We are closer than neighbors with our orphanage seeing as it is located on our property just down the steps from our apartment and across the yard and paved soccer court. Every day Gabrielle asks me if she can go play at the orphanage. My answer is usually yes.

So most afternoons she can be found mixing it up with the 18 kids who live a stones throw away. They jump rope, do Barbies hair, make believe, swing, slide, run, and even get a smidgen of homework and chores around the orphanage done together every once in a while. Can you imagine? How clever it will be for her to tell people when she is older that she grew up in an orphanage.

The other day Gabrielle made some choices that crossed the line we had clearly drawn. She is naturally a limit pusher so this sort of thing has happened before and will most likely happen again. The infraction committed involved behavior at the orphanage. So it occurred to me that the only consequence that would have any impact on her would be to restrict her from the most favorite thing in her life. I grounded her from going to the orphanage for a certain number of days.

Trust me, I do realize that most parents would be thrilled if their nine year old daughter preferred to spend most of her time at an outreach center. It makes me so proud to see her caring for the younger ones, folding clothes, helping the kids with their homework or serving plates of food. I know this will have positive benefits in her life long term. I just didn’t feel as though I had any other recourse at the moment because of the choices she made.

That only lasted a few days. She is back to having a ton of fun. She learned that it is important to make better choices. I learned something too. I now understand my mother-in-law’s action when she grounded her son from church. We mothers are a funny bunch of folk.

Sundays we Skype with Oma and Opa (my parents). It is fabulous! They chat with, sing to, and read cool books to my kids. They ask to see the latest art projects and check up on their latest interests. The kids feel loved and validated. I realized, too, that it is so good for me to see my people adore my kids.

As I was thinking about the refreshed perspective it brings to watch them treat my kids like royalty I had one more thing to add to the list of things I miss about my friends who are far away. I miss my friends doting on my kids. I call it doing life together.

In 2011 five of my closest missionary friends moved away. It was a shock to the system in more ways than one. I mustn’t complain too much because two of them are moving back and one of them is still in Bolivia so we can see each other with intentional visits. And I need to be grateful for the season I am in, yah dah yah dah… I’m working on it. It ain’t easy.

When my friends were close we were able to do life together. They were in my home. We were in theirs. We would do life together. They would be physically present for little things my kids said and did. I would do the same with their kids.

I didn’t know how vital this was until it was gone. I realize that I need to have people around me who adore my kids so that I don’t forget to adore them.

I also realized that this necessity is not going to happen by accident. So even though it takes effort I am going to do some specific things to place more adorers in our life. I will also be more aware of the importance of being an adorer of the kids in my life for the other mamas around me.

The glossy pictures

Of the perfect bathroom

Towel racks hung

With His and Hers.

Careful lift of the corner.

Turn the page

It slips from view.

A sigh, a twinge,

Someday… maybe.

With choices that were smarter

I would have a head that’s clearer

That would make my account richer

And my character kinder.

Then I’d have a body that was lovelier

And a house that was cleaner

Surely my heart would be happier

And I would grow much faster

To have everything bigger

And be a person who is better.

Ers.

All the Ers.

Elusive Ers.

Liars.

The towels.

I can’t blame embroidery.

Those satiny letters spelling out perfectly

His and Hers.

The good enough

Will have to be

The Is and the Ers.

My Ers

and His Is.

A marriage of truth.

The Ers that make me grumble and strive

Covered in the Is of Him all alive.

That is the enough

That I always have wanted.

Letting His sufficiency

Cover my insecurity.

Begging His complete

To fill my ends don’t meet.

Relieved at last I sigh

Exhale the h sound long.

The H stripped from the words

The two words of facade

Leaving loose strings

Tangles and a mess

Of all my Ers

And all His Is.